Friday, April 4, 2014

For Shannon

He
wakes in the morning. He always wakes in the morning. He woke
yesterday. He will wake tomorrow. The summer air had bled hot through
the open windows and coated him with sweat all the night through. The
dark gives no respite from the drenching. The others sleep on. In the
silence of the morning he wanders to the computer room. To the book
of faces, to the memory hole. There a face that is no longer a face –
or that has gained its true face. A new angel in heaven, they say,
but for her soul they pray not at all. Rest in peace, some say,
praying it even if in praying they know not what they mean. "Fuck!
Fuck fuck fuck," he says. And then, because he knows he must
"Requiem aeternam
dona ea Domine, et lux perpetua luceat ea. Requiescat in pace.."
The contrast is not lost on him. The rage and the hate and the
helplessness tangle inside him and his heart stumbles over it and,
all unchecked, falls into the salt sea, and the sea bleeds from where
his face would be, if he had a face. But he has forgotten his. He has
forgotten hers, too. He sees her as she was, as he will always see
her, as he will always see any of them – as they were in that hazy
golden tint of youth, when they woke every day, because they awoke
yesterday, so they shall awaken tomorrow. Except her. BANG! BANG
BANG! And she will not awaken tomorrow.